


A Ghost Story

by vixleonard



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: He loves his wife, but he's still not sold on the direwolf.





	A Ghost Story

The direwolf scares him.

Dickon wouldn’t ever voice such a concern, especially since he’s seen Sam scratch its ears like a common dog, but King Jon’s white wolf is a fierce thing to behold. There’s nothing like it in the Reach, and though its never made a move on Dickon, he’s wary of it.

His lady wife finds this hilarious.

Since arriving at Winterfell for this visit, the direwolf has stayed close to her, and this afternoon he comes in from training in the yard to find her seated in front of the fire atop some furs, the direwolf stretched alongside her, patiently allowing her to groom him. He thinks he freezes only a moment but Sansa is more perceptive than any warrior he’s ever met because she laughs and says, “Are you a scary thing, Ghost?”

The damned direwolf leans into her hands, revealing his furry underbelly.

“He’s still just new to me, that’s all,” Dickon says, beginning the task of stripping off his sweat soaked tunic. Lady Brienne beat him into the dirt, which would’ve been embarrassing if she hadn’t beaten everyone into the dirt. “I’m not afraid.”

“Of course not, darling,” she says in the same sort of patronizing tone Dickon recognizes from when his mother used it on his father. “You’re the bravest knight in all seven kingdoms.”

He starts to puff up with a touch of indignation but then Sansa looks over her shoulder and smiles, so bright and beautiful, it leaves him in a rush of breath. “Gods, you are…” 

He cannot find the words, they were never his strong suit, but Sansa knows this. She never asks him for love words or songs. She never asks for anything, and Dickon would give her everything.

“I hope Brienne didn’t hurt you too badly,” she says, rising gracefully from the fireside, brushing her hands over her skirts to try to remove the white fur there. “I could hear the noises all the way in here.”

“I fear I’ll be sore tomorrow but nothing permanent.” He swallows hard as Sansa takes the tunic from his hands, trailing the tips of her fingers over his chest, down the ridges of muscle on his stomach, and ending at the laces of his trousers.

“And are you tired, my lord?” Sansa asks, capturing the end of one lace between her thumb and forefinger and giving it a tug just firm enough to undo the bow.

“Tired?” he echoes, uncertain he is even understanding her words when she is standing so close, both hands now unlacing his trousers and slipping around his hips, down into his smallclothes. She squeezes his arse before pushing his trousers and smallclothes down his thighs. His cock pops up like he is a green boy and not a man who has been married for over a year now.

“This part of you doesn’t seem so tired,” Sansa says, wrapping her fingers around him, stretching on her toes to press a kiss just under the hinge of his jaw. 

He almost trips getting them to the bed, his pants and smallclothes still tangled around his legs. Sansa giggles as he strips them off, cursing all the while, and shimmies out of her smallclothes, lifting her skirts and unlacing the top of her gown so he can reach her breasts.

So anxious to get inside her, he doesn’t even remember the damned direwolf is there until Sansa peaks, crying out his name in a way that has him ready to spill. It is then the creature leaps up from the fire, landing on the bed to protect his mistress, and Dickon screams, “Seven hells!” and hopes if he dies being mauled by King Jon’s direwolf, Sansa at least puts his pants back on him before fetching help.


End file.
